Still Sensitive, Still Faithful: A Reflection on Prayer and Emotion

 

After our daily rosary, our Leader expressed her frustration—despite her continuous efforts to invite more people through church bulletins, the same devoted individuals remained the ones answering the call to prayer. I understood her sentiment, but explaining the reasons felt difficult. After all, my fellow rosary prayer group members are based in Australia, while I am the only one praying from the Philippines.

 

At one point, a member suggested that perhaps the repetitive nature of the rosary made it less appealing to others. In response, our Leader offered a heartfelt perspective: “Would a wife ever tire of hearing her husband say, ‘I love you’? Would a mother grow weary of her child saying, ‘I love you, Mama’? Of course not.”

 

There is truly a quiet comfort in routine prayers, a steady rhythm in the daily recitation of the rosary—a space where faith feels like an anchor. And yet, despite this devotion, some struggles of mine remain unchanged. Yesterday, after casting my vote and sharing a meal with a fellow believer, I found myself retreating into bed, overcome by a familiar wave of sensitivity.

 

I have always believed that prayer offers strength, a guiding force through life’s uncertainties. But what happens when the very emotions I seek to soften—my sensitivity, my deep reactions to the world—persist despite my devotion? Should faith transform me completely, or is it meant to hold me through the storms rather than erase them?

 

This reflection is not about doubt, but about the paradox of faith and emotion—the delicate balance between finding solace in prayer while accepting the parts of myself that remain unchanged. 

 

I felt so weighed down with sorrow—not because I was hurt, but because I had hurt someone I deeply loved and admired. The realization sat heavy in my chest, lingering in my thoughts, and replaying in my mind. The regret was overwhelming, so much so that I wished I could escape into sleep, wrapping myself in the silence of my room, hoping that rest might blur the memory, even for a little while. But emotions have a way of staying with us, pressing upon the heart in ways that cannot simply be willed away.

 

Today, my prayer to Mama Mary is a quiet plea—not to erase my sensitivity, but to refine it. To grant me the grace to listen with discernment, to temper the sharp edges of words before they wound, and to deepen my understanding of the hearts of those I hold dear. May I learn to respond with wisdom rather than react with haste, so that I do not allow my emotions to cloud my intentions or lead to misunderstanding.